A faint sound of water dripping echoed somewhere nearby.
"Ugh…" Vinz groaned softly as his eyes fluttered open.
His head throbbed painfully, and his body felt heavy, like he'd been asleep for days.
The smell of damp wood filled his nose.
He slowly sat up, blinking at his surroundings. The ceiling above him was made of rough bamboo. Sunlight slipped through the tiny gaps, scattering golden rays across the floor. He wasn't at his home anymore.
Vinz realized he was lying on a wooden bed inside a small cabin. His head was wrapped with a piece of cloth, probably to stop the bleeding from the crash. His whole body ached.
He swung his legs down, as pain shot through his ribs.
"Where… where am I?" he muttered.
The cabin was small, maybe just big enough for one person. There was a small table, a chair, and an oil lamp that had already burned out. A few boxes and old tools were stacked in one corner, and through the open window, he could hear the slow movement of water.
Outside, birds chirped faintly. The air felt cleaner here, colder.
He stood up, unsteady, and limped toward the window.
A calm river flowed beside the cabin, surrounded by tall grass and trees. On the riverbank sat their tricycle, its front part dented, side mirror cracked, but still standing.
Vinz's eyes widened.
"Pa?"
He quickly turned and rushed outside.
The morning light hit his face, making him squint. The tricycle was parked under a tree, the engine completely off. His father's backpack leaned against the sidecar.
And then, he noticed it.
Dark stains on the ground.
Blood.
His stomach tightened. The trail started from the tricycle and went toward the river, a long drag mark like someone had crawled or carried something heavy.
"Pa?" he called again, louder this time.
"Pa! Are you here?"
No answer. Only the gentle sound of the river.
He followed the blood trail slowly, heart pounding, every step heavier than the last. The mud felt cold under his slippers. The trail stopped right at the edge of the water.
The current was calm, but something about it felt wrong.
He looked around, shouting again, "Pa! Answer me!"
Still nothing.
Vinz dropped to his knees near the water. His reflection stared back, pale face, tired eyes, and a bandage wrapped around his head. For a few seconds, he just stayed there, breathing hard, fighting the growing lump in his throat.
Then he noticed the bag again.
He grabbed it and carried it inside the cabin. It was heavy. Inside, he found a few useful things: canned food, a flashlight, a lighter, a half-empty bottle of water, and a small first aid kit.
There was also a book, its cover said "Basic Survival Guide."
He flipped through it quickly. Notes were written on the margins in his father's messy handwriting. Tips about finding clean water, starting a fire, and building shelter.
Then he saw it, a notebook with the words that says "Diary" on the first page. His father's diary.
Vinz opened it slowly.
The first entries were about ordinary days, repairs, errands, short notes about his family. Then, the later pages turned darker. Reports of infections, people attacking each other, news about cities shutting down.
And finally, the last page.
The handwriting was shaking, smeared with dried blood.
- "If anyone finds this, I tried to protect my family, but I failed. If you're reading this Vinz, son, find your mother and brother. They ran when the road was blocked. I'll try to find you later, but if not, stay alive. Trust no one. Don't follow the cities. They're gone."
Vinz froze. His hands trembled as he stared at the letter, his eyes burning.
He wanted to cry, but the tears didn't come.
He just sat there, silent, his heart hollow.
"…You can't be gone, Pa," he whispered.
"You can't."
The room felt smaller now, the silence pressing against his chest. He stood up, breathing shakily, and walked outside again. The sun had risen higher. The sky was clear, but the world felt dead.
He walked toward the tricycle and opened the sidecar. Inside was a folded piece of paper sealed in a plastic bag. His name was written on it.
"Vinz."
He opened it carefully.
- "It's been days Vinz, if you're reading this, it means I didn't make it back. I left the tricycle for you. Use it. Head north toward the hills. There's a river path that leads to the main road. Avoid towns. Don't stop for anyone who waves. And remember, family first, everything else after. I love you, son."
Vinz clenched the letter tightly, then folded it back and placed it inside his bag.
He stood there for a long time, staring at the river. The wind rustled through the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a single gunshot echoed faintly, then silence again.
He turned toward the tricycle and started checking it. The engine had a few dents but still looked repairable. A spare gas can was tied at the back.
"Alright…" he muttered to himself.
"Let's see if you still run."
He turned the key. The first try—nothing. Second—still dead.
"You really left this for me, huh, Pa?" He sighed, leaned against the seat, and looked at the sky.
He smiled weakly, then tried again.
BRMMMM.
The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life.
"Ha," he said, a short, tired laugh escaping his lips.
"Still works."
He turned it off for now, saving the fuel. He looked at the river one last time and whispered,
"I'll find them, Pa. I swear."
The sun began to set, painting the sky orange and red. The reflection shimmered across the water like blood.
Vinz gathered his father's things, cleaned the cabin as best as he could, and prepared to leave in the morning.
He ate a small can of sardines with cold rice he found in one of the boxes, sitting quietly near the window. The night air was cold, and the forest outside buzzed with insects.
He held the survival book in one hand, flipping pages under the dim light of the oil lamp. His father's handwriting appeared again on one of the pages, a line written across the top margin:
- "If you ever feel alone, remember, you were born to survive, not to give up."
Vinz closed the book slowly.
He looked out the window, listening to the quiet sound of the river. The world outside was dark, unknown, and full of danger.
But somewhere out there, his mother and brother were still waiting.
He laid down on the wooden bed again, staring at the ceiling. His eyes grew heavy, his mind replaying his father's last words.
"Family first," he whispered.
Then, he fell asleep not out of exhaustion, but out of hope.